


Your Eyes Look Like Coming Home

by bluepaladiiin



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Light Angst, M/M, Swearing, like a lot of fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-29
Updated: 2015-06-29
Packaged: 2018-04-06 20:17:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4235202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluepaladiiin/pseuds/bluepaladiiin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry longs to make beautiful things, and Louis is one of them. (Or, Louis and Harry want to make things mean more, and they do.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Your Eyes Look Like Coming Home

Harry longs to make many beautiful things. So, so many of them that the world will burst in a flurry of light and darkness, in all the colours the spectrum offers. Sometimes he wonders why he can’t do just that; why can’t Harry make the most magnificent artwork anyone has ever seen? He would like to know the answer to that. Really, actually, would want to. Perhaps, Harry sometimes thinks, he does know the answer to that question deep inside. Perhaps, Harry isn’t able to dig deep enough to excavate the answer and bring it out on the surface.

Perhaps Harry isn’t ready for the answer just yet.

\---

Louis likes beautiful things, and maybe that’s just because he is one. He loves the sun, how you want to stare at it but you can’t because losing your eyesight would be devastating. The ocean is also rather beautiful, the eternal pull and push of the waves as they try to overcome the previous swaying of water. His mother always told Louis that he was a lot like the sun and ocean; his skin the perfect golden glow and his eyes the deepest pacific blue. But not many other people have told Louis what a beautiful thing he is, and it’s not like he’s asked. What a weird question that would be.

No, Louis would just have to take his mother’s words as cold, hard facts.

\---

Harry works at a bakery. It is one of those homely, warm type of bakeries that one often hears of in the stories of a fairytale book. He is instantly in love with it. There are moments in life where one walks into a certain place, ready and disposed to subject themselves to start and finish a job one does not even want to do. That is how it starts out for Harry, like forced labour. It quickly dissipates into a daily pleasure during the summer vacations, and a weekly highlight during school semesters.

Harry also begins forming relationships with the employees, and the regular customers. Since the bakery is not owned by a mainstream company, the customers remain largely the same every day. The same goes for the employees, as it is a family-owned bakery of two sisters whose father had passed down to them. It is a fun job, and for once, Harry finds something to do during the summer and weekends that does not include yoga sessions, or playing FIFA, or lying in the sofa at his mother’s house with his sister, Gemma, watching crap telly.

Harry’s mom hates when they watch crap telly.

\---

Louis’ mom often does the breakfast for seven children, and a husband. She loves cooking, she really does. She enjoys the looks of gratitude her family gives her as they taste a home cooked meal, but often times, the job of being a mother and wife catches up to her. That is when Louis steps in.

Jay decided to make breakfast that very morning for the nine of them, and she had wanted to do small sandwiches. Louis was getting the bread when he realised that there had been no more in the cupboards. That is exactly why he is now braving along in the cold spring morning, mittens and scarf wrapping around him in secure embraces.

The bakery nearest Louis’ home isn’t exactly the most popular. It isn’t a mainstream company, nor is it one of those once-in-a-lifetime popular shops that come from nowhere. In fact, whenever Louis passes by, the window sees into an almost empty bakery with a lone person behind the counter. But Louis is in a hurry today, as his and his sisters’ stomachs had made clear earlier that morning. This little, unpopular bakery seems to be the best game plan for today.

Louis jogs across the street, hands shoved down into his jacket’s pockets. He comes to an abrupt stop right in front of the bakery, opening the door to the warmest air he’s felt all day. The shop also has a fading jingling bell near the door, which Louis can’t help but find cute.

Unwrapping the thick scarf from his mouth, Louis begins walking into the bakery. It all smells of clean chemicals, lavender (there’s a box on the counter), and freshly baked bread. There are three metal tables at the back, all painted in beige and gold, with seating for two on each. You can hear the clattering of pans and voices from the back of the shop, making it feel a little less isolated. All in all, Louis thinks that he might just recommend the place to his mum.

Just as a man steps out of the kitchen, Louis hops onto the balls of his feet and quips, “Hi.”

The man stumbles in surprise, the five bags of flour he carries dropping in surprise. Most land on the ground behind the counter, except the unlucky one which is also subjected to catching on the waist-high door that separates employee to customer. The flour flops down in front of Louis with a dull thud.

“Oops,” the man says, lifting his head up to look at Louis sheepishly. And, okay, this man is not a man at all. His curly hair and pouting mouth and green green eyes suggest anything but that. He’s probably younger than Louis, even, and Louis doesn’t consider himself an adult. “Sorry.”

“Nah, it’s all right.” Louis bends down to pick up the sack of flour on his side of the counter, “Here you go, mate.”

“Thanks, man.” The boy smiles, wide and uncomplicated, a dimple carving into his cheek. He takes the bag, “So, what can I help you with?”

Louis chuckles, “I think you’d rather want to put away those sacks before you get to me.”

“Oh, uh, right.” The boy nods slowly, turning around to place the sacks on a wooden bench behind him. His hands are huge, Louis notices, bigger than his own by maybe five centimetres. Is that normal? Louis thinks it might not be.

“All right, then,” Harry claps his hands together once, then rubs them together to rid away the flour sticking to them. “What can I get you?”

\---

Harry has never prided himself in his gracefulness, in both the physical and verbal aspects of social interaction. That is why he’s not entirely surprised when he drops his bags of flour, or when he stutters as he’s talking to the boy in front of him. He’s also not very good at keeping his stupidly obvious blush away when he sees a cute guy, but it seems like his customer hasn’t noticed. At least that’s a good thing.

“Uh, one of those long bread rolls, please.”

Harry chuckles, hiding his face behind a long tuft of hair that falls down in front of his eyes. “Long bread rolls?” He asks, reaching his hand out to grab the item, “Do you know what they’re called?”

The boy blinks, taking fidgety hands out of his pocket. “Uh, no?”

Harry bursts out with a bark of laughter, covering his mouth with one hand and pointing at a basket of bread with the other. “Those are bread rolls,” the small, oval breads, “And the ones you want are baguettes, I’m guessing.” Harry grabs a baguette, raising an eyebrow in question.

The boys blinks again, a small smile gracing his lips. It makes them thinner, paler. “Mate, I did not take bread-naming classes, but thanks for the tip. I’m sure it's going to be very useful.”

Harry shrugs one shoulder, packing up the bread, “You never know...uh, what’s your name?”

“Louis Tomlinson, and you are?”

“Harry Styles,” Harry bites back a grin, congratulating himself on a smooth move done well.

Louis goes up to the counter, bouncing up in what Harry knows is the result of standing on his toes. He holds up his hand for Harry to take, a warm smile lighting up his face with crinkles. Harry takes his hand, both of them shaking on what feels more like a ‘finally’ than a ‘nice to meet you’.

\---

Louis feels like he’s floating on air, but he’s not. He’s just floating in the stream near Harry’s house.

They should not be outside during spring, in fact, they definitely shouldn’t be swimming in a stream on April when the temperatures are still colder than what someone sane would deem apt for swimming. But here they are. Louis and Harry haven’t exactly been the smartest when it comes to what to do when hanging out. Their mothers have found them near-freezing, near-overheating, near-dying-of-boredom, near-hysterically-laughing a few times too many. Both of them haven’t found the consciousness to care, and probably never will.

Harry is swimming a meter away from Louis, his curly hair plastered down on the sides of his face. It’s much longer than Louis would have anticipated, but he likes it this way just as much as he likes it dry.

“What’re you thinking about, Lou?” Harry asks, moving through the water to float next to Louis. His voice sounds muffled in Louis’ submerged ears, but he can just make out the words. Harry always speaks with a baritone voice that is hard to miss.

“You,” Louis replies.

“Oh?” Louis can feel Harry’s smile, could probably feel it if they were miles away. It’s odd how just a month of knowing each other has brought them closer than Louis has been with anyone in his whole life.

“Oh indeed, Harold.” Louis says, “Mostly your hair, to be honest. It’s so long.”

Harry stands up in the water, giving Louis a dull look. And because Louis is Louis and Louis knows Harry, he tries to stand up before Harry flips him over to his stomach, but Louis isn’t fast enough. He struggles in the water for a moment before resurfacing, grinning at Harry and dunking him under.

Louis doesn’t ask Harry why he was shoved underwater, or why Harry gave him an unamused look. It’s just because Louis knows by now, he really does, but he doesn’t know how to ask without seeming like an idiot. He doesn’t know how to ask something beautiful to be his.

\---

Harry knows many things. He’s a student; he’s forever learning something new and wonderful and liking almost everything he learns. He’s still learning how when Louis smiles there are times when crinkles overcome his whole face. Or how his wrists remain steady when playing the piano, but move wildly when he’s playing any other instrument. Harry loves to learn, and he probably has never loved anything more than learning about Louis Tomlinson.

What bothers him, though, is that he doesn’t quite understand Louis. Harry knows Louis, really well, probably as well as the back of his hand. And yes, it’s only been three months but time doesn’t matter when Harry genuinely believes he’s found someone he’s met before. But not in this life, and it might be wrong for him to think in past lives, maybe even stupid, but the thought is there and it’s only growing every day.

No, Harry knows Louis, but he doesn’t understand him. Harry will think he’s getting close, closer, closest but then Louis pulls back a smidge and it’s all gone. He doesn’t know if he’s moving too fast with Louis, or if he’s perhaps making him nervous. The only thing Harry knows is that he wants to get Louis to like him as much as Harry likes him.

\---

Louis doesn’t know many things. He’s always flying from one place to the other, from one person to the other. He’s got dozens of friends in school, and he’s never with one group for too long. You could almost say he’s a nomad in a way, except that he’s never been outside of the town his family lives in, much less England.

The one thing that Louis does know, though, is that he and Harry Styles are a package deal. He doesn’t know when he realised this, or why this is even a coherent thought, but it is, and it’s there to stay. Because Harry Styles is the most beautiful, charming, kind person Louis has had the pleasure of meeting, and he knows Harry thinks the same of him. They’ve discussed it.

Some days Louis wakes up in his bed, thinking everything is pre-Harry. He goes to the bathroom, wakes up his sisters, goes downstairs to eat breakfast. Then Louis will realise that this is life post-Harry, and he will be amazed and frightened by how much his outlook of life has changed since three months ago. He’s looking forward to something in the day other than family and friends; he’s looking forward to spending time with someone special.

And Louis doesn’t exactly know what to do with that piece of information.

\---

Harry and Louis are sitting on Harry’s porch in the backyard. They’ve been swinging lazily on his long swing bench for a while, staring at the darkening sky. In summer, the colours of the dusk sky morph from light blue to a darker blue, with the occasional violet and pink. Today they get the occasional violet and pink, and yet Harry can’t stop staring at Louis’ profile.

He knows what it means, and Harry’s come to terms with his feelings long ago. Perhaps, he reasons, the only cause of him not having asked Louis out yet is that he’s not sure what Louis feels. Louis has been opening up more and more as the weeks passed, and having two months of summer to themselves has helped with that. Harry still doesn’t think Louis is ready, though, so he waits.

He waits most successfully by looking at Louis, apparently. Harry can’t really help it. Louis’ face is alight with the soft hues of the setting sun, his skin taking on a sun-kissed colour. They’re both wrapped up in the same blanket, Harry having insisted that the nights get a tad too cold for his liking (it was a lie, he just wanted to have Louis close).

“Lou?”

“Yeah?”

“What do you think about love?” Shit. No, bad question.

Louis shifts in his seat, not quite meeting Harry’s stare. “Uh, not sure. What exactly is it about love that you wanna know?”

And, okay, that response is better than what Harry anticipated, so he figures they’re okay. “Just, like, if you think two people can fall in love fast, or if it takes time. Soulmates, all of that.”

Louis meets Harry’s eyes, a small ghost of a smile skirting around his features. Perhaps Harry isn’t as subtle as he thought he was. “Of course people can fall in love fast, it just depends on the person. It could be like love at first sight, you know? But more like an infatuation with the person first, and then gradually falling into love.”

Harry nods, chest buzzing, “And soulmates?”

“Well,” Louis rests his head on the chain holding their swing up, “I think so, maybe, yeah. Like, and this might be really stupid, but I sometimes think we could be soulmates. It’s been only four months and I probably know you better than I know myself, to be honest.”

Harry grins, smile stretching his face wide and dimples making deep craters on his cheeks. He pokes Louis’ cheek twice, giggling, “Aw, Lou! Look at you, going all soft on me.”

“All right, Haz, stop that,” Louis smirks, slapping Harry away. His cheeks are flaming.

Harry pokes him once more on his stomach before settling down on his side of the swing. He smiles, peaceful and at ease. “It’s okay, Louis. I think so too.”

Louis gives him an odd look, “Really?”

“Sure,” Harry shrugs, “And you know me well, soulmate, so you know I’m not lying to make you feel better.”

“Don’t need your pity, Styles.”

“Never said you did, Lou.”

\---

Louis is finding himself to be incapable of leaving Harry’s side. To be fair, the same has been true for the past eight months since their meeting. He hasn’t been able to think, feel, or even touch anyone else in the same way he does Harry. It might be wishful thinking, but Louis thinks that Harry might feel the same way. He doesn’t know, exactly, so he’s forcing himself to not get his hopes up.

But it’s hard, is the thing. It’s hard to squash any remote thought he has of Harry and him being something more because Harry’s always so loving. Harry is kind to everyone, Louis knows, and he also knows that it almost looks like Harry flirts with all living beings. That’s not the case, though, because Louis knows that when Harry flirts he gets a dopey smile and he doesn’t wink and he remains open-hearted at all time. Harry, when he isn’t flirting, winks a lot and grins really wide and slings arms around people.

A flirting Harry Styles is softer, more careful, and much more respectful than any person in this world could ever imagine deserving.

Louis doesn’t like thinking that he knows when Harry is flirting (but he does, really) because it just means that he’s had first-hand experience on Harry’s moves. Although, if Louis was being honest and logical with himself, he would say that he has seen Harry’s flirting, a lot of times, and it was always directed at him. However, Louis Tomlinson is a human and he has feelings and he knows what it is to get his heart broken, everyone does, so he chooses a more emotional approach.

And then Harry comes back, with his curls and that ridiculously attractive smell of his. Louis knows a goner when he sees one, and he is definitely one of them. No doubt about it, Louis has been ruined for anyone else. He supposes that he’ll either curse or thank Harry when they set their feelings in front of each other. For now, though, he’ll simply hang them up until the time comes to pull them back down.

\---

“Lou?” Harry asks, feet tiptoeing up the staircase up to Louis’ bedroom. His mum must have given Harry a key, as Louis remembers locking the door after his family had gone out to buy dresses for the girls. There is a party they’re supposed to attend a few days from today.

“In my room,” Louis exclaims, stretching his back. “What in the bloody hell are you doing here? You’re supposed to be studying for finals.”

“Yeah, and so are you,” Harry points out, stepping into the room and dropping on Louis’ bed. “Just thought I’d come over for a bit. I’m knackered.”

“Studying’s getting to you?”

Harry turns his head, cheek smushed on the blanket, “A bit, yeah.”

Louis smiles, cracking his knuckles, “Want a massage?”

“Uh,” Harry shifts, closing his eyes and breathing in before sighing, “Yeah, sure, okay.”

Louis gets up from his chair, wiping sweaty palms on the back of his trousers. He probably shouldn’t have offered to do something so intimate. Who even massages their best friend? Louis may have heard of girls that’ve done it, but that’s only for the girls who consider themselves sisters. In a way, Louis and Harry are as close as that, much closer even, but a massage? Something like a slap twitches in Louis’ right hand, but he suppresses it.

He kneels on the bed, his weight sinking the edge. Harry shifts to the side, arms pressed to his torso and eyes closed. At least his lax state will make it easier for Louis; Harry might even fall asleep if he’s lucky enough.

“Uh,” Louis breathes, curses himself immediately for being affected by what he’s about to suggest, “I’m going to straddle you, all right?”

Harry’s reply comes after a tense moment of silence, and even then, it’s only a hum.

Louis takes in a deep breath, swings a leg over Harry’s lower back, and settles himself. It’s awkward as he tries to shift away from Harry’s bum, but finally finally, he rests comfortably on top of Harry. He wills his cock to go to sleep or something while he begins the massage, but thinking about a boner is like summoning the devil. Taking another breath, Louis tries to stop thinking at all.

He stretches out to make a path from lower back up to to the neck with his thumbs, rubbing at the muscles just beside the bones of Harry’s spine. Louis then trails trembling fingers to Harry’s shoulders, kneading softly as he mutters, “Tell me if you want more pressure.”

“Please,” Harry whispers, cracking one eye open and gazing up, “A bit more.”

Louis nods, swallows through the nervousness collecting in his throat, reaching his chest, dropping to his stomach. He presses his fingers more surely, his breathing and kneading going at a similar pace. Harry sighs contentedly, eyes fluttering even as they’re closed. There are the beginnings of butterflies in Louis’ stomach, more prominent and lovelier than the worms that inhabited him. If Louis could take a picture he would, and he’d hide it under his pillow so he could look at it every night and morning.

And yet he doesn’t, because no picture could be as beautiful as the breathing person.

They continue on their tandem for a few minutes longer, Louis going as far as to sink his torso down to ghost over Harry’s as he breathes next to his ear. Harry’s intakes of air are taking a slightly stuttery quality to them, which Louis finds himself staring at intently, craving more and more and more. Louis prolongs the massage as long as he can, as long as it is appropriate, but he knows that if he goes on for much longer Harry and him will not come back from what could be painstakingly obvious.

So as Louis trails his fingers back down Harry’s sides, he digs them in purposely, eliciting a startled laugh out of Harry, whose eyes are now wide and lips stretched into a grin. Harry wiggles, but with Louis straddling his hips, escape is almost impossible. Louis tickles him once more before pressing his palms down on either side of Harry’s head, and rolling over and away from Harry’s body.

“You’re welcome, Harold,” Louis winks, and if it’s a bit too slow to form or too meaningful to be just playful, neither mention a thing.

“You are awful,” Harry smiles, crossing his arms under his head so he can look at Louis properly.

Louis scowls, “Are you saying my massage was bad? I’ll let you know that I got my degree in kneading at Harvard, Mr. Styles, something that--Hey!”

Harry swings a leg over Louis’ hips, leaning down to smirk at his shocked face, “Something that what, Mr. Tomlinson?”

But before Louis can respond, Harry is burying his face on Louis’ crook of his neck, hands tickling his side. Louis tries to push Harry away, but the weight on top of him is too heavy and the nose tickling his neck renders him too soft to do anything more than half-heartedly swat at Harry’s curls. Just when Louis is about to surrender, his giggles becoming hysterical and his sides starting to ache, Harry stops. His face remains on Louis’ neck, calm breaths ghosting over his skin. There is a moment where Louis’ hands lift up to pull Harry off, but a split-second later they change course and pull him closer to his chest.

Their heartbeats are as erratic as a stampede of elephants, but neither can bring themselves to point it out. Or to point out the fact that this isn’t what normal friends do.

“Haz?” Louis murmurs, voice a caress.

Harry hums a, “Mhm?” But nothing more.

“Are you going to sleep on me?”

“Mhm.”

“All right, then. Sleep well.”

“You too, Lou.”

Louis doesn’t know how or why, but when he wakes, he realises that their nap was the most restful sleep Louis has gotten in a very long time. Something in the way that Harry grins at him after he wakes makes him wonder if it’s Harry most restful sleep as well, and that it probably is.

\---

Something has changed in Harry and Louis’ dynamic. It’s not to say that it wasn’t expected, after the massage (did it really happen just a week ago?) that gave Harry enough wank material for a whole year. However, it is surprising that Louis is a tad bit more distant now as their relationship seems to evolve into a new, abstract form.

They’re both more intimate with each other now. It’s as if a barrier has been broken. One they had both silently agreed was better off left alone, but then they had disregarded all the rules they’d so carefully put up. It was a bit anti-productive, Harry would say if he were to analyse this, but he isn’t about to, so.

Harry’s actually quite happy with the new intimacy. They touch each other now with as much freedom as an actual couple, just without the kissing. Both of them agree that cuddling and hugging is a really nice way to pass time, though, so Harry’s not about to complain. Louis is a whole different story altogether.

Louis doesn’t seem to be entirely comfortable with their newfound closeness. He’s never had a problem with cuddling before, but he seems to have a problem with cuddling when it might mean something else. Something more than just a platonic relationship. Harry doesn’t understand why that might bother Louis so much. He’s almost completely certain that they both house feelings too strong to pass off as brotherhood or friendly camaraderie.

So when Louis pulls back -- just an inch -- when Harry hugs him close, he doesn’t look to closely into it. It becomes a bit harder when Louis is admandant to them not sharing blankets, or popcorn on movie night, or even the same bed. And the bed, okay, Harry can see why that might bring Louis discomfort, but when the bed turns into the couch Harry isn’t sure if he can ignore their drift much longer. He isn’t sure if he can take silence as an answer to his throbbing question.

‘Why?’

\---

“What are you so afraid of?” Harry shouts, his voice reverberating against the walls of his bedroom. Ever since Gemma had gone to college, the house had been quieter. He and Louis had needed to become silent in their cackles, in their petty arguments. Now that Anne is out of the house as well, Harry can scream and screech at Louis all he wants to. He needs to.

“I am not afraid of shit, Harold,” Louis hisses back, crossing his arms and cocking his hip to the side. Harry wishes he could hold Louis, could ease the crease between his brows, but he can’t, because they are not together. That’s what sparked the argument in the first place.

“That’s bullshit, Lou, and you know it.”

“No, you know what’s bullshit? This dumbass argument we’re having. What’s the point of it? We both know you’re going to end up crying and I’m going to comfort you and then we’ll bury it away, just like we always have.”

Harry wants to cry, yes, but for that comment he won’t. “No, no. This time we’re going to finish this argument and solve this stupid problem. You’re not going to blame this all on me, and you’re not going to ignore it anymore.”

Louis raises an eyebrow, sitting on Harry’s desk chair, crossing his legs. “Oh, yeah? So you’re not going to break down crying right here, right now? Because it looks to me like you’re tearing up.” That’s a surprisingly low blow, one that catches Harry in the chest.

“Shut up, Louis,” Harry breathes, his voice lowering into a pitch that surprises them both. “Shut the fuck up. If you don’t want to talk you can just leave my room.”

Louis makes no movement from the chair.

“So?” Harry asks, crossing his own arms. “What are you going to do? Get up and run, like you always do, or stay and actually talk this out like a normal human being with actual emotions?”

“With actual emotions?” Louis huffs out a laugh, malice peeking out on his expression, “What the fuck are you implying?”

“Nothing,” Harry answers, “Not implying. Just stating.”

“Oh, really? So what are you saying? That I’m a heartless robot with zero ability to care for any other human person? Because it sure as hell looks like that.”

Harry almost rolls his eyes because bloody hell, Louis is so melodramatic. “No, just that you always keep your emotions bottled up; even around your mum for fuck’s sake! And the worst thing is that you don’t even have to do it. You act as if the whole world was a goddamn killer machine out to get you, and it’s not. It’s not because I’m here, your family is here, your friends are here, and we love you and care for you and protect you. But like the bloody idiot you are, you can’t get that around your damn head.”

Louis narrows his eyes, but says nothing. Harry feels something surging in the depth of his chest, an enlarging entity crawling up and up and up, and down and down and down. It’s everywhere, in his head, his legs, his toes. He feels like he finally got his point across. A point Harry’s been trying to make for the past year, and he can now take a deep breath and just exhale.

Harry sighs, sitting down on the closest edge of his bed to Louis. He rubs a hand over his face, his hair falling down in front of his face. When he opens his eyes once more, Louis is looking away from him, an unfamiliar glistening on his eyes.

“Lou?”

Louis shakes his head. He inhales a shaky breath, “Goddammit, Harry. I’m sorry, all right? I know you’re here, and I love you too, but it’s not easy to say it.”

When Louis doesn’t elaborate, Harry asks, “Why?”

“Why what?”

Harry does roll his eyes this time, but leans forward with his elbows on his knees. He wants to give Louis his full attention, just like he knows Louis likes when he gives any big speech. “Why isn’t it easy to say?”

Louis leans back on the chair, his head falling back to face the ceiling. “I don’t know, really. Maybe it’s a pride thing, who knows.”

“It’s probably a pride thing, yeah.”

“Well, aren’t you swimming with compliments.”

“Sorry, Lou.”

“No...It’s okay, Haz. It is kind of a pride thing, more about feeling vulnerable. I don’t like that.”

Harry smiles softly, making sure that it’s not wide enough to make Louis feel stupid for making a confession like that. “Well, you’re pretty vulnerable right now.”

Louis looks down, eyes locking with Harry’s, “Yeah, but I trust you not to screw me over, you shit. Now stop smiling, you’re making me feel stupid.”

Harry wipes the grin off his face, which had only grown as Louis continued to speak. “Okay, okay, Lou. I trust you too.”

“Wonderful, Harold,” Louis deadpans, “Any more big confessions we need to get out in the clear?”

Harry can think of one, perhaps the only important confession he can ever make. The only one that matters in the end. “Well…”

Louis’ chest stutters before coming to a stop. He’s still staring at Harry, his expression now as somber as that of a sober man. Harry isn’t sure if this is a good sign (Louis is taking it seriously), or if it is a bad sign (Louis is taking it badly). He goes with the former because he’s already made a confession today, and another can’t hurt, right? Louis basically just admitted that he trusts Harry, a lot more than normal. That’s got to mean something.

“Uh, should I--Should I go on, or...?” Harry murmurs, voice soft.

Louis swallows, his throat bobbing, “If you want to.”

“Okay, okay,” Harry inhales harshly, wiping his hands on his trousers. This is harder than he thought it would be. “I,uh… I guess I could start by saying that I like you, a lot? And not just as a friend, but, like, as something more, maybe? And--”

“Wait,” Louis holds his palm up, “Is that a something more, maybe? Or a definite something more?”

Harry’s eyes widen, “Uh, I guess it’s definite? But, like, it’s not if you don’t want it to be. It could be just a maybe, for now.”

Louis studies Harry for a moment, his eyes pinched, expression thoughtful. His lips are pulled into a thin line, his fingers trailing on his chin, then his lips, and back again. Harry concentrates on that rhythm to make up for the stifling silence in the room. He never thought that he’d feel uncomfortable in the presence of Louis, but lo and behold, here he is, sitting on his own bed and feeling like a turtle out of its shell.

“Harry?” Louis speaks up, his eyes softening around the edges.

“Yeah?” Harry squeaks out. He clears his throat, but, thankfully, Louis doesn’t comment.

“I didn’t mean the confession thing literally.” Louis sighs, but it is neither guilty nor pitying. It’s more wistful than anything else. “But I love you, too, you know?”

Harry chokes on his own spit, “Uh, no, I didn’t know.”

Louis laughs, and finally finally the atmosphere in the room is happy and light, just as it should be. “Well now you do.” He raises his arms up, and Harry is halfway there when he says, “Come here, you oaf.”

\---

Harry longs to make many beautiful things, and Louis likes beautiful things because he is one. They make a rather radiant couple.

After they tell Anne and Jay, and Gemma and Lottie and Felicite and Daisy and Phoebe and Ernest and Doris and Dan and Des, both Harry and Louis are a bit too liberal in their displays of affection. Anne and Jay say it’s beautiful to see them both in love, but all their sisters are tired of catching them kissing or with their shirts off or, and they claim this is the worst, sharing ‘yearning’ gazes. They don’t yearn. Harry and Louis prefer to call it their ‘too-in-love-to-label’ gazes. It sounds much better.

Their friends also largely accept them both together, and many of them (Niall, Liam, Zayn, Josh, Nick, Taylor, Eleanor, Perrie) shout out that it was about time. To be fair, it probably was, but Louis and Harry don’t respond other than with dull looks. They all get drinks at Niall’s house after the announcement, manage to get smashing drunk, and have a few videos floating around the internet too embarrassing to consciously acknowledge.

After two long weeks of full family and friend coverage on their relationship, Harry and Louis are finally sitting in a park. They choose the park for no reason, other than it is pretty and it is close to their houses. Also, because it’s almost completely deserted, and Harry and Louis need some privacy.

They both have their backs against a tree trunk, a blanket stretched beneath them. This is probably one of their worst ideas ever. It’s cold out for October, but of course, it is northern England and so a ‘pretty cold out’ is more like a ‘freezing your balls off’ type of temperature. Unfair, maybe, but Harry and Louis are taking it as they go. Also, they can use the cold as an excuse to cuddle up close to each other.

They don’t need an excuse, per say, but they both find it amusing when Louis asks, “Can we cuddle?” And Harry raises an eyebrow only for Louis to answer with an, “It’s because of the cold, Curly, don’t get any ideas...”

So they now sit with their legs intertwined, arms around each other, a blanket over their shoulders and another beneath them that wraps over their legs. It is as cosy as they can get, but with Louis’ head on Harry’s neck as soft puffs of breath ghost over his skin, neither can come up with a plausible excuse to get out of the cold air.

Louis’ lips brush against Harry’s skin, little goosebumps breaking over his neck that make Louis smile. “I love you.”

Harry sighs, raises Louis’ head with a hand on his cheek, “And I love you.”

They kiss, soft (so soft), their eyes half-lidded in pleasure but not fully closed. Both of them don’t want to miss a single moment of this. Harry honestly can’t believe he made something as beautiful as the expression on Louis’ face, the pleasure and trust and vulnerability alighting it in love and a care too deep for words. Louis finds himself believing it when Harry tells him he’s beautiful, and loves that he’s able to kiss someone as amazing as Harry, as sweet and as kind and as handsome.

Harry doesn’t long to make any more beautiful things when he already has the most beautiful with him. Louis doesn’t want any more beautiful things when he’s already admiring the most beautiful view he’s ever seen.


End file.
